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FOUR OF THEM. 


BY 

i/ 


LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 

AUTHOR OF “ BED-TIME STORIES,” “ MORE BED-TIME STORIES,” 
“ NEW BED-TIME STORIES,” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED. 





i > > 




BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

tr 


i 




T-Z-1 

VA^ioF 0 

\ , — ■ 


43759 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
Louise Chandler Moulton, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Copyright , /88j, 1890, 1899, 

By Louise Chandler Moulton. 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 


*ECON n 



John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 


Csuzk . 1 -^ . 


FOUR OF THEM. 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS. 

T")ERHAPS one girl seldom loves another so dearly 
as I loved Grace Ellsworth ; and that may have 
been .the reason why the wound in my heart, when 
it came, was so sore and hard to heal. Since I have 
been a grown woman, and fallen into the way of 
really thinking about things, it has often seemed to 
me that in some natures jealousy is the black shadow 
of love; and you know how exaggerated and dis- 
torted our shadows always look. 

I remember the first time I ever saw Grace. It 
was when I was only four years old. That is a long 
way back to remember ; but I have heard people tell 
of really distinct memories extending back still far- 
ther than that. My first memory was Grace. 

I have been told since that my parents had just 
moved into the town which was Grace’s home. Our 
mothers had been friends long before, and so one day 


2 


FOUR OF THEM. 


I was taken to see Grace. Do such little creatures 
as I was then think, I wonder ? 

I hardly know ; but there is a picture before my 
eyes, as distinct as any I have ever seen on canvas, 
of a little girl in a white frock, with a red ribbon 
round her waist, with big black eyes, and yellow 
hair hanging about her pink cheeks. 

She had been told by her mother — but this is one 
of the things I have learned since — that I would be 
a little sister for her ; and she came towards me, her 
small hands outstretched in welcome, without the 
least childish shyness, and said, — 

" How ’oo do, Cahwy ? I glad ’oo come.” 

I believe I had the pleasing habit, at that epoch, 
of saluting strangers with a prolonged wail of doubt 
and dismay; but this beautiful and friendly vision 
put to flight the incipient howl, and I submitted to 
be led away by her in triumph. I think I must 
have been introduced to a large family of dolls and 
a storehouse of playthings ; but I remember nothing 
of them, — I remember only Grace. 

From that day we were almost daily together. It 
was the easiest way of amusing us ; for I was an 
only child, and so, to all intents of companionship, 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


3 


was Grace, though she had a half-sister some ten 
years older than herself. This half-sister, Mary, was 
our benignant special providence, and I loved her 
almost as ivell as Grace did. 

We grew up together, — Grace and I, — went to 
the same school, studied the same books, dreamed 
the same dreams. We used to trace out on our maps 
the routes by which we would like to travel. I have 
been over some of them since, but not with Grace. 
We used to go oftenest, in our fancy, to Rome. We 
were full of interest in Roman history, and we 
longed to stand among the stately ruins of that old- 
time glory. 

I have been there when the light was soft upon the 
Alban hills, and the sun was low, and I thought I 
heard a voice — her voice — say, gently, “ Here w T e 
are, at last ; ” but I knew it must be the wind among 
the stone-pines. 

When I took my last draught from the Fountain 
of Trevi, under the spring moonlight, I heard the 
voice again, or seemed to hear it ; but this time it 
must have been the murmur of the fountain itself, 
for I know not what tongue they speak in the land 
where Grace is now. 


4 


FOUR OF THEM. 


When we were in our fourteenth year, — have I 
told you that we were of the same age, Grace and 
I ? — a cousin came to spend the summer and 
autumn with her. This cousin was a nice enough 
girl, and really the most prejudiced mind could 
hardly blame her for having been sent to stay at her 
Aunt Ellsworth’s while her parents made a journey 
across the Atlantic. 

But jealousy and justice are not of the same fam- 
ily, though they begin with the same letter; and I 
was jealous of Edith Stanhope from the first. 

She was a city girl, with pretty little ways of her 
own, and various manners and customs to which 
Grace and I were strangers. Her toilets were per- 
fection; but I honestly think she thought no more 
of them than we did of bur brown Holland frocks. 
She would have been called handsomer than 
either of us, I have no doubt ; and yet to me her 
pink and white face had no charm comparable to 
that of Grace’s rather pale face, with the great dark 
eyes, full of truth and tenderness. 

At first, Grace tried to make Edith and me friends ; 
and no doubt it was my fault that she did not suc- 
ceed. I wanted Grace quite to myself, as I had had 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


5 


her all my life ; and because I could not so have her, 
I was touchy and disagreeable ; and soon Miss Stan- 
hope let me see clearly enough that she returned my 
indifference. All the same, she was Grace’s guest, and 
Grace could not leave her to come to me as of old. 

When I went there, I could never see my darling 
alone, and I grew to think my lot very hard. I was 
an imaginative girl, and I took refuge in melancholy 
poetry, and even dropped into rhymes myself, in 
which I bewailed my cruel fate, and accused my 
friend of stony-hearted ingratitude and indifference. 

Grace always had an uncomfortable amount of 
common-sense ; and when, one day, I left the most 
melancholy of these rhymed lamentations in her desk 
at school, I saw her smile as she read it, — a smile 
full of honest fun, which I magnified into scorn and 
ridicule. My vanity was as sorely wounded as my 
heart, and I at once took open issue with her. I 
accused her of preferring her cousin. I told her 
grandiloquently that she had taught me how little a 
lifelong friendship was worth. 

Shall I ever forget the incredulous and astonished 
look in her eyes ? She was always gentle, though far 
firmer than I ; and she spoke quietly and sweetly, — 


6 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ Of course you don’t mean anything you are say- 
ing, Carry, but do you think you ought to say such 
things, even in jest ? ” 

“I am in no mood for jesting,” I replied, with 
the high-mightiness of one whose fourteenth birth- 
day was just past. “ Our friendship has not been a 
jest to me } nor am I the one who has thrown you 
aside for another ! ” 

Her eyes grew sad in the midst of their lingering 
incredulity, as if conviction were slowly coming to 
her that I was in earnest. 

“ Can it be possible, Carry,” she said, still gently, 
“that you really think I have treated you ill, — 
that I have ceased to love you, — I, who have loved 
you all my life ? ” 

Her very gentleness angered me. “ What is love 
worth,” I cried, “that will make no sacrifice for its 
object ? Will you leave Miss Edith Stanhope alone, 
and come and pass every other afternoon with me, 
as you used ? ” 

With all Grace’s gentleness, she was not wanting 
either in self-respect or in spirit, and she answered 
me very firmly, — 

“No, Carry, I will not leave my cousin to spend 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


7 


every other afternoon alone while she is my guest; 
and you ought not to like me so well if I would.” 

I suppose I knew in my own soul that she was 
right ; and that very knowledge made me the more 
determined. Besides, my jealousy flamed more fiercely 
than ever ; and jealousy, you know, is cruel. 

“Very well,” I said. “ Keep Miss Edith Stanhope, 
and I wish you joy of her. Perhaps, when she goes 
away, your ladyship will condescend to think of me 
again ; hut I may have learned other ways of passing 
my afternoons by that time. Good-by.” 

I thought this address very withering, I remember. 
Grace half put out her hand to me, as if she would 
detain me. Then she evidently thought better of it, 
and turned away and joined her cousin. This con- 
versation had been held in a corner of the school- 
yard, and after it was over Grace and Edith walked 
away together. 

I went home alone. That was in September. Oc- 
tober and November came and went, and still the 
estrangement between Grace and me continued. We 
nodded to each other when we met, with a distant 
politeness ; we even said good-morning, if our paths 
crossed ; but this was all. 


8 


FOUR OF THEM. 


Sometimes I saw a wistful look in Grace’s dear, 
dark eyes, and some word ready to be spoken seemed 
to tremble on her lips ; but I took no notice. My 
jealousy was like an actual, haunting presence, which 
never forsook me. 

The first day of December my mother gave me a 
twenty-dollar gold-piece. It was the sum which for 
some years had been given to each of us — - Grace 
and me — on the first of December, with which to 
make our Christmas presents. 

Our mothers had thought, wisely, that we ought to 
have some experience in the use of money, and we 
were both ambitious to make the most and best of it. 
Our presents for each other were always a grand sur- 
prise, reserved for Christmas Eve, but about every 
other item we consulted. 

I wondered if Grace had already received her gold- 
piece, and whether she would miss me as much in 
planning how to use it as I should miss her. Then 
the thought crossed my mind that I should have the 
more for others, as, of course, I should buy nothing 
for Grace. 

And then came a sudden, swift revulsion of feeling. 
Not buy anything for Grace, who had been my heart’s 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


9 


delight all my life, ever since that first day when she 
had put out her baby hand and said, “ How ’oo do, 
Cahwy ? I glad ’oo come ” ! 

I tried to shut my heart against her image. I said 
to myself that no one would deny it was hard that, 
when we had been all in all to each other for all 
those years, another person should come and swallow 
up Grace altogether. 

But conscience lifted up her voice and reminded me 
that it was not Grace’s fault that I had not been with 
her as much as before, and shared her daily life with 
her cousin as I had shared it when she was alone. 

“ Great good that would have been,” I answered 
aloud to the inward voice, hoping thus to silence it ; 
“ great good, with always missy, the cousin, to hear 
every word that we said ! ” 

But try how I might, I could not make myself 
comfortable. I began to think I could not help buy- 
ing Grace’s present. Perhaps I would not give it to 
her ; perhaps I would send it on Christmas Day, 
with a few lines of poetry, — I prided myself, rather, 
on the “ lines ” I could write for such occasions, — 
and so show that, though I had given her up to her 
new friend, I bore no malice. 


10 


FOUR OF THEM. 


That idea pleased me. I persuaded myself that 
I should be heaping coals of lire on her head, and I 
took great delight, as I have observed that people 
usually do, in the thought of making them as hot as 
possible. 

“ I am going to buy Grace a present/’ I remarked 
to my mother, in an off-hand way, with, I rather 
think, some vague idea that she would admire my 
largeness of mind. She had asked me once or twice 
during the past few weeks what was the matter be- 
tween Grace and me ; and I had said, “ Nothing, 
except that Grace had not time enough for both her 
cousin and myself.” 

When I announced my intention to make Grace a 
present, it was received, I must confess, with a disap- 
pointing equanimity. “ Oh,” my mother said, care- 
lesslv, and went on with her sewing. 

Once resolved upon buying that gift, it filled all 
my thoughts. It should be something that Grace 
could not help liking, and it should be pretty, no 
matter how the other gifts fared. 

There was one thing that I knew Grace had long 
wanted, — a silver locket with a picture of my- 
self. Could I give her my picture, now that I had 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


11 


chosen to take the ground that she no longer cared 
for me ? 

I might, at least, get the locket. 

1 went to the village jeweller’s, and I found among 
his stock two little silver lockets. They were the 
same in price, — five dollars each. They were of 
bright, white coin-silver, for it said “ pure coin ” in 
little letters inside their covers. Each had a place for 
a picture. On the outside of one was a forget-me-not, 
beautifully engraved. On the other was a carnation 
pink, Grace’s favorite flower. 

I liked the sentiment of the forget-me-not ; but 
after all, Grace was so fond of pinks. I could not 
make up my mind, and I went away to think of it 
overnight. 

The next morning I hurried back, hardly certain 
yet which I* wanted. I asked if I might see the two 
little lockets again. 

“ One was sold last night,” the clerk answered, 
“ but here is the other,” and he took out of the show- 
case the locket with the carnation. 

So the matter had been settled for me. I handed 
out my twenty-dollar gold-piece, — for, after all, this 
was the first Christmas present that I had purchased, 


12 


FOUK OF THEM. 


— received my change and the little silver locket, 
aud went home. 

It was Saturday, and there was no school. I 
busied myself with embroidery patterns, and tried to 
plan what I could make, and what I could buy with 
the rest of my money ; but all the time I was really 
trying to settle the question in my own mind whether 
I should have my daguerreotype — for it was in the 
old days of daguerreotypes — put into Grace’s locket. 

I said to myself, “ Perhaps she does not love me 
enough, now, to want it.” But in my heart I knew 
that she loved me as much as ever, and that it was 
only my wicked pride which hated to admit that I 
was wholly in the wrong. 

I was sitting in the room where my mother was 
sewing — poor, patient mother, with so many weary 
stitches to take always — and my aunt was reading. 
Suddenly my aunt looked up. 

“ Here is something I want to read to you, sister, 
I think it so well said.” And then she read : — 

“ c There was an old custom in Egypt of carrying a 
dead body round on its way to burial, and stopping 
before the doors of all who had been its enemies, that 
there might be a reconciliation before the last long 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 13 

parting. Would it not be well to do that earlier? 
What if by a common consent all human differences 
had to expire with each old year, and a new page 
begin with the new ? Would we not be careful, hav- 
ing felt the soreness of estrangement, to keep the 
new year fair ? * ” 

The words struck me with a strange force and 
meaning. What if I should wait too long before I 
let Grace know not only that I loved her, but that 
I believed in her love ? Would any sacrifice of 
such a poor thing as my pride be too much to 
make to atone for all the sore pain I must have 
cost her ? 

You will think my simplest course would have 
been to go to her at once, and tell her all that I felt. 
But I have told you that I was an imaginative child. 
There was something in me that delighted in scenes 
and crises, — in doing things in a story-book kind of 
way. It would soon be Christmas Eve, and Grace 
would be expecting nothing from me. How charm- 
ing it would be to go to her with the locket, and sur- 
prise her with that and my visit at the same time ! 

That afternoon I had my daguerreotype taken, and 
put into the locket. The man who took it gave, with 


14 


FOUR OF THEM. 


his soft brushes, a little rose to my cheeks, just a 
tint of blue to my eyes, and a little golden warmth 
to my hair. 

I secretly thought it a pretty picture, and I don’t 
think from that time till Christmas Eve there was 
one waking hour in which I did not plan afresh what 
I should say to Grace, and how she would look, and 
what a touching and beautiful scene it would be, 
altogether. 

At school, however, I held myself more carefully 
aloof from my friend than ever. I was so desperately 
afraid that I should be led to anticipate the grand 
reconciliation I had planned. Grace looked sad, and 
I used to think, sometimes, paler than usual; but if 
I believed, as I did in my heart, that the sadness was 
on my account, I comforted myself by thinking how 
soon I should chase it all away. 

Christmas fell that year on Thursday, and that 
whole week there was no school. Wednesday night, 
just at twilight, we had finished our afternoon meal, 
and I asked my mother if I might carry my present 
to Grace and stay there for a little while. She con- 
sented, and told me she would send for me at nine 
o’clock. 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


15 


I took a good look at the locket before I put it into 
its little box lined with pink cotton-wool. 1 thought 
how delighted Grace would surely be with it ; and 
I was glad it was the carnation one, and not the 
forget-me-not, for I fancied it would please her 
better. 

Shall I ever forget that clear yet tender winter 
twilight through which 1 walked the half mile be- 
tween my house and Grace’s ? The west still held 
the glow of the sunset. The sky was cloudless, and 
in the east the evening star hung tenderly, as if 
to watch what might befall on earth this night of 
nights. 

I knocked at the door, when at last I reached the 
house. I never used to knock, but I had been such 
an infrequent visitor of late. Mary, Grace’s half- 
sister, opened the door, and I saw that her face was 
all swollen as by long weeping. 

“ I am glad you have come, Carry,” she said. “We 
were going to send for you. Grace wants you. She 
is very ill with pleurisy. She has been ill two days, 
but we never thought of danger until to-day.” 

“Danger!” T think that was the most awful 
moment of all my life. I hieiu then that she was 


16 


FOUR OF THEM. 


going away from me ; and at the same time I knew, 
better than I had ever known before, how dearly I 
loved her, how dearly she had always loved me. 

“ May I speak to her ? ” I whispered. 

“ Yes, the doctor says it will not hurt her. You 
may go in now.” 

I found my darling in her own room. Her mother 
was there, and her cousin Edith sat by the lire. Grace 
put out her hands. 

“ How do you do, Carry ? I’m glad you ’ve 
come.” 

The very same old words of our first meeting ; 
only now they were spoken plainly, but in a hoarse, 
strange voice, not like my Grace’s. 

“ May I see Carry quite alone ? ” she asked, and 
the others went out. 

I sank on my knees beside her, and it seemed to 
me my heart broke, then and there. She spoke 
faintly, and with difficulty, but she drew herself 
along and rested her head against mine. 

“ Don’t grieve so, Carry,” she said. “ I always 
knew you loved me. Did you think I did n’t know ? 
But I could n’t be unkind to Edith.” 

“No, and I was a wretch ; a wicked, wicked girl; 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


IT 


but I did love you all the time. See, I got this for 
you three weeks ago,” and I opened the little silver 
locket and laid it in her hand. 

“ 0 Carry, it was just what I wanted most,” she 
said. “ Your dear face ! I will make them leave it 
on me, if I die, dear, and I shall not be so lonesome 
with your face on my heart. I had something, too, 
for you.” 

She drew out from under her pillow another little 
silver locket, the forget-me-not locket. So it was she 
who had bought it, even before I bought its mate. 
There was under its glass a long tress of her soft, 
shining black hair, and a hair chain was attached 
to it. 

“ The chain is my own hair, too, dear ; I braided it 
for you, myself. It is very strong, and I thought you 
would like it. I did not know I was going to leave 
you when I made it; but it will make you think of 
me when I am gone.” 

She was so much calmer than I. I could scarcely 
speak at all. 

“ Are you ” — I could not say the rest of the sen- 
tence I had begun. 

“ Yes, dear, I think so ; and I dare not be sorry 


18 


FOUR OF THEM. 


when the Father in heaven says ‘ Come ; ’ but I 
should have liked to be happy again, for a while, with 
you.” 

Her mother came back then, bringing the doctor. 
They sent me out of the room, and when, soon after, 
they came out together I heard the doctor say that 
she was sinking fast. 

“ Oh, let me stay with her this one night,” I cried, 
out of the depths of my broken heart ; “ please, please 
let me ! ” 

“ Do let her, if you can,” said Mary’s gentle voice, 
and the doctor answered, — 

“ Yes, let her stay, if you like ; nothing can do any 
harm now.” 

So I stayed through that long night, and we all 
watched round Grace’s bed together. Sometimes she 
was in sharp pain, which it agonized us to witness. 
Then she would seem to sleep the heavy sleep of ex- 
haustion. From time to time she spoke to one and 
another of us, some tender, thoughtful sentence. 
Once she drew Edith’s hand and mine together, as we 
stood near her, and said, quite clearly, — 

“You both loved me. For my sake, love each 
other. ” 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 19 

And once she said, but that was when it was al- 
most morning, — 

“Will it not be a good day to be born into heaven, 
the day on which our Lord was horn here ? ” 

It was the stillest chamber. We all tried to be 
quiet, and to keep back all signs of our sorrow, for 
her dear sake ; and we saw, or thought we saw, upon 
her face the light of some new dawn of glory. 

Towards the end, her mind seemed to wander a 
little. She said over and over, in a dreamy kind of 
way, — 

“ Oh yes, I knew always — I never doubted.” 

The window-shades were pulled high up, and I 
caught sight of a rosy flush above the eastern hills. 
Just then, as if in answer to some voice we did not 
hear, she cried out strongly, “ Yes ! Yes ! ” 

And then she turned to us, as one who sets out 
upon a journey, and bade us, one after the other, 
good-by. 

“ Carry, last,” she said ; and spoke to all the 
others, even to her mother. Then she turned to me, 
with the light upon her face by which I shall know 
her when I meet her among the angels, “ Cahwy, 
Caliwy ! ” 


20 


FOUR OF THEM. 


It was the old childish name when she could not 
speak plainly, — the name by which she had adopted 
me when she and I were only four years old, — and 
as it crossed her lips a sudden ray of dawning struck 
them, for 

“ The morn of the nativity had just begun to break.” 

With that dawning Grace was born into another 
world than ours. The lips which the first sunbeam 
kissed were already cold. 

They buried her, as she had requested, with my 
Christmas gift upon her heart. My face went down 
with her into the silence below the grass and the 
snow. 

I have never laid aside her last gift, the little sil- 
ver locket with the forget-me-not on its cover. If 
there is any good in me at all, if I have striven ever 
so feebly to uproot from my heart the evil weeds 
of jealousy and injustice, God only knows how 
much of it I owe to this my talisman, my silent 
monitor. 

Especially do I look at it every Christmas morn- 
ing, and think of her on whose frozen beauty that 
Christmas morning of long ago looked in. And still, 


THE LITTLE SILVER LOCKETS. 


21 


though so many years have passed, do I miss her 
sorely. 

Does she miss me also, in her far, blessed home, 
and bend to listen to the chant in which souls that 
aspire on earth and souls that rejoice in heaven alike 
may join, — “ Glory to God in the highest, and on 
earth peace, good-will toward men ” ? 


HER MOTHER’S DAUGHTER, 



YL GRAHAM was an only child. Her name 


was Sylvia, but everybody called her Syl, 
except that sometimes, half playfully and half chid- 
ingly, her father called her Sylly. But that was a 
liberty no one else took, — and for which Mr. Gra- 
ham himself was not unlikely to pay in extra in- 
dulgence. 

Syl*was seventeen, and she had never known 
any trouble in all her young, bright life. Her 
mother had died when she was two years old ; and 
this, which might easily have been the greatest of 
misfortunes, — though Syl was too young to know 
it, — had been turned almost into a blessing by the 
devotion of her father’s sister, Aunt Rachel, who 
came to take care of the little one then, and had 
never left her since. 

Not the dead Mrs. Graham herself could have 


HER mother’s daughter. 23 

been more motherly or more tender than Aunt 
Rachel ; and the girl had grown up like a flower 
in a shaded nook, on which no rough wind had 
ever been allowed to breathe. 

And a pretty flower she was ; so her father 
thought when she ran into the hall to meet him, 
as he came in from business at the close of the 
short November day. 

The last rays of daylight just bronzed her chest- 
nut hair. Her face was delicately fair, — as the 
complexion that goes with such hair usually is, — 
colorless save in the lips, which seemed as much 
brighter than other lips as if they had added to 
their own color all that w’hich was absent from the 
fair, colorless cheeks. The brown eyes were danc- 
ing with pleasant thoughts, the little, girlish figure 
was wonderfully graceful, and Papa Graham looked 
down at this fair, sweet maiden with a fond pride, 
which the sourest critic could hardly have had a 
heart to condemn. 

“ Are you cross ? ” she said laughingly, as she 
helped him off with his overcoat. 

“ Very,” he answered, with gravity. 


24 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ I mean are you worse than usual ? Will you 
be in the best humor now or after dinner ? ” 

“ After dinner, decidedly, if Aunt Rachel’s cof- 
fee is good.” 

Syl nodded her piquant little head. “ I ’ll wait, 
then.” 

The dinner was good enough to have tempted 
a less hungry man than Mr. Graham, and the coffee 
was perfect. Papa’s dressing-gown and slippers 
were ready, upstairs ; and when he had sat down 
in the great, soft easy-chair that awaited him, and 
his daughter had settled herself on a stool at his 
feet, I think it would have been hard to find a 
more contented-looking man in all New York. 

“ Now I ’m very sure you are as good as such a 
bear can be,” said saucy Syl ; “ and now we ’ll 
converse.” 

To “ converse ” was Syl’s pet phrase for the 
course of request, reasoning, entreaty, by which 
Papa Graham was usually brought to accede to all 
her wishes, however extravagant. He rested his 
hand now on her shining chestnut braids, and 
thought how like she was to the young wife he 


HER mother’s daughter. 25 

had loved so well, and lost so early. Then he 
said teasingly, — 

“ What is it, this time ? A Paris doll, with a 
trunk and a bandbox ; or a hand-or^an ? ” 

“For shame, papa! The doll was four years 
ago.” 

“ All the more reason it must be worn out. 
Then it ’s the hand-organ. But I must draw the 
line somewhere, — you can’t have the monkey. If 
Punch and Judy would do, though ? ” 

“ Now, Father Lucius, you know I gave up the 
hand-organ two years ago, and took a piano for 
my little upstairs room instead; and you know 
I ’m seventeen. Am I likely, at this age, to want 
monkeys, Punch and Judys, and things ? ” 

“ O, no! I forgot. Seventeen, — it must be a 
sewing-machine. You want to make all your end. 
less bibs and tuckers more easily. Well, I ’ll 
consent.” 

Syl blushed. It was a sore point between her 
and Aunt Rachel that she so seldom sewed for 
herself. Aunt Rachel had old-fashioned notions, 
and believed in girls that made their own pretty 
things. 


26 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ Now, papa, you are not good-humored at all. 
I had better have asked you before dinner. You 
don’t even let me tell you what I want.” 

Papa sobered his face into a look of respectful 
attention, and waited silently. But now Syl was 
not quite ready to speak. 

“ Don’t you think pomegranate is a pretty color, 
papa? ” 

“ What is it like? ” 

“ O, it *s the deepest, richest, brightest, human- 
est red you ever saw.” 

“ Why, I think it must be like your lips ; ” and 
he drew her to him, and kissed the bright young 
mouth with a lazy content. 

“ Perhaps it is like my lips ; then, surely it will 
look well with them.” 

“ Where does this blossom of beauty grow? ” 

“ It grows at Stewart’s. It has been woven 
into a lovely, soft-falling silk, at four dollars a 
yard. Twenty-five yards makes a gown, and 
eight yards of velvet makes the trimming and 
the sleeveless jacket, and the velvet is six dollars 
a yard. And then there is Madame Bodin, she 



; You don’t even let me tell you what I want.’ Papa sobered his 
face into a look of respectful attention, and waited silently.” 





her mother's daughter. 27 

charges like a horrid old Jew, — forty dollars just 
to look at a gown ; and then there are the linings 
and buttons and things. Have you kept account, 
papa, and added it all up in your head? ” 

“ I think it means about two hundred dollars. 
Is n’t that what you call it, Sylly ? ” 

“ Yes, if you please. It ’ll be worth that, won’t 
it, to have your daughter look like a love, when 
all the people come on New Year’s Day?” 

“ So that ’s it, — that ’s what this conspiracy 
against my peace and my pocket has for its object, 
— that Miss Syl Graham may sit at the receipt of 
callers on New Year’s Day, in a robe like a red, 
red rose. O Sylly, Sylly ! ” 

Syl pouted a little, the most becoming pout in 
the world. 

44 Well, I ’m sure I thought you cared how 1 
look. If you don’t, never mind. My old black 
silk is still very neat and decent.” 

“September, October, November, — it’s nearly 
three months old, is n’t it? What a well-behaved 
gown it must be to have kept neat and decent 
so long ! And as to the other, I ’ll consider, 


28 FOUR OF THEM. 

and you can ask me again when I come home to- 
morrow.” 

Syl knew what Papa Graham’s considers meant, 
and how they always ended. She had gained her 
point, and she danced off and sang to the piano 
some old Scotch airs that her father loved, because 
Syl’s mother used to sing them ; and Papa Gra- 
ham listened dreamily to the music, while his 
thoughts went back twenty years, to the first win- 
ter when he brought his girl-bride home, only a 
year older, then, than Syl was now. He remem- 
bered how the firelight used to shine on her fair, 
upturned face, as she knelt beside him ; how 
sweet her voice was ; how pure and true and 
fond her innocent young heart. And’ now Syl 
was all he had left of her. 

Should he lose Syl herself, soon? Would some 
bold wooer come and carry her away, and leave 
him with only Aunt Rachel’s quiet figure and fad- 
ing face beside him for the rest of his life ? 

Just then Syl might have asked him not in vain 
for any thing, even to the half of his kingdom. 

Next morning Syl went into the sewing-room 


HER mother’s daughter. 29 

A young girl just about her own age was there — 
altering, sewing, making all the foolish little fan- 
cies in which Syl’s heart delighted, though her 
idle fingers never wrought at them. Out of pure 
kindness of heart Syl found her way into the sew 
ing-room very often when Mary Gordon was there. 
She knew her presence carried pleasure with it, 
and often she used to take some story or poem and 
read to the young listener, with the always busy 
fingers, and the gentle, grateful face. 

But to-day she found the girl’s eyes very red as 
if with long weeping. If Syl was selfish it was 
only because she never came in contact with the 
pains and needs of others. She had “ fed on the 
roses and lain among the lilies of life,” — how was 
she to know the hurt of its stinging nettles? But 
she could not have been the lovesome, charming 
girl she was if she had had a nature hard and 
indifferent to the pains of others. 

To see Mary Gordon’s red eyes was enough. 
Instantly she drew the work out of the fingers 
that trembled so ; and then she set herself to draw 
the secret sorrow out of the poor, trembling 
heart. 


30 


FOUR OF THEM. 


It was the old story, so sadly common and yet 
so bitterly sad, of a mother wasting away and fad- 
ing out of life, and a daughter struggling to take 
care of her, and breaking her heart because she 
could do so little. 

“ I ’m used to all that,” the girl said sadl} T , 
“ and I don’t let myself cry for what I can’t help. 
But this morning I heard her say to herself, as I 
was getting every thing ready for her, 4 O, the long, 
lonesome day ! ’ She thought I did not hear her, 
for she never complains ; but somehow it broke me 
down. I keep thinking of her, suffering and weary 
and all alone. But I can’t help that, either ; and 
I must learn to be contented in thinking that I 
do my best.” 

44 But can’t you stay at home with her and work 
there ? ” cried Syl, all eager sympathy and interest. 

44 No, I can’t get work enough in that way. 
People want their altering and fixing done in their 
own houses, and plain sewing pays so poorly. 
Sometimes I ’ve thought if I only had a machine, 
so I could get a great deal done, I might manage ; 
but to hire one would eat up all my profits.” 


HER MOTHER’S DAUGHTER. 


31 


Syl thought a little silent while; and it was a 
pretty sight to see the fair young face settle into 
such deep earnestness. 

“Well,” she said at length, “at least you shall 
stay at home with her to-morrow; for all those 
ruffles can be done just as well there as here, 
and you shall carry them home with you. And 
you ’d better go early this afternoon ; there *11 
be enough work to last you, and I can’t bear 
to think of her waiting for you, and wanting you, 
so many long hours. We ’ll give her a little sur- 
prise.” 

Mary Gordon did not speak for a moment. I 
think she was getting her voice steady, for when 
she did begin it trembled. 

“ I can't thank you, Miss Syl, — it ’s no use to 
try; but the strange part is how you understand 
it all, when you ’ve no mother yourself.” 

“ Ah, but you see I have papa and auntie, and I 
just know.” 

That day, after Syl and Aunt Rachel had 
lunched together, Syl said, in a coaxing little 
way she had, — 


32 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ Aunt Rachel, we never want to see the other 
half of that cold chicken again, do we?” 

“ Why, Syl — we” — 

“ Why, auntie, no — we never want to-morrow’s 
lunch furnished coldly forth by this sad relic. 
And there ’s a tumbler of jelly we don’t want, 
either — and those rolls, and, — let me see, can 
sick people eat cake?” 

“ Why, Syl Graham, what are you talking 
about ! Who ’s sick ? ” 

Syl grew sober. 

“ I ’m thinking about poor Mary Gordon’s 
mother, auntie. She ’s sick, and dying by inches ; 
and Mary has to leave her all alone ; and I ’ve 
told her she shall stay at home to-morrow and 
make my ruffles, and we ’ll pay her just the same 
as if she came here. And don’t you see that we 
must give her her dinner to take home, since she 
can’t come here after it?” 

Aunt Rachel never said a word, but she got up 
and kissed Syl on each cheek. Then she brought 
a basket, and into it went the cold chicken and a 
cold tongue and jelly and buttered rolls and fruit, 


HER mother's daughter. 33 

till even Syl was satisfied ; and she took the heavy 
basket and danced away with it to the sewing- 
room, with a bright light in her dear brown 
eyes. 

“ I think you ’d best go now,” she said. “ I 
can’t get your mother, waiting there alone, out of 
my mind, and it ’s spoiling my afternoon, don’t 
you see ? And because you must n’t come here to 
dine to-morrow, you must carry your dinner home 
with you ; and Aunt Rachel put some fruit and 
some jelly in the basket that maybe your mother 
will like.” 

That night, when Mr. Lucius Graham let him- 
self into the hall with his latch-key, his daughter 
heard him and went to meet him, as usual. But 
she was very silent, and he missed his teasing, 
saucy, provoking Syl. 

“Why, daughter, are you in a dream?” he 
asked once during dinner ; but she only laughed 
and shook her head. She held her peace until she 
had him at her mercy, in the great easy-chair, and 
she was on the stool beside him, as her wont was. 
Then, suddenly, her question came. 

3 


34 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ Papa, do you think a pomegranate silk with- 
out velvet would be very bad ? ” 

He was inclined to tease her, and began with 
“ Hideous ! ” but then he saw that her lips were 
fairly trembling, and her face full of eagerness, 
and forbore. 

“ How did you know you were to have the silk 
at all? But you know your power over me. 
Here is your needful ; ” and he put into her hands 
ten bright, new twenty-dollar bills. 

“ O, thank you ! and do you think it would be 
bad without the velvet?” 

“ Sylly, no ; but why should n’t you have the 
velvet if you want it?” 

And then came the whole story of poor Mary 
Gordon, and — in such an eager tone, — 

“ Don’t you see, with the money the velvet 
would cost, and a little more, I could get her the 
sewing-machine; and Madame Bodin wouldn’t 
ask so much to make the dress if it is plainer ? ” 
Mr. Graham was a rich man, and his first 
thought was to give her the money for the ma- 
chine, and let her have her pretty dress, as she had 


HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER. 


35 


fancied it, first. But a second thought restrained 
him. She was just beginning to learn the joy and 
beauty of self-sacrifice.. Should he interfere ? He 
kissed her with a half-solemn tenderness, and an- 
swered her, — 

“ You shall do precisely as you please, my dear. 
The two hundred dollars is yours. Use it just as 
you like. I shall never inquire into its fate again.” 

And then she went away — and was it her voice 
or that of some blessed spirit that came to him, a 
moment after, from the shadowy corner where the 
piano stood, singing an old middle-age hymn, 
about the city — 


Where all the glad life-music, 
Now heard no longer here, 
Shall come again to greet us, 
As we are drawing near.” 


The next day, who so busy and happy as Syl — 
dragging Aunt Rachel from one warehouse to 
another — it was in the days when sewing-ma- 
chines were costly — till she was quite sure she 
had found just the right machine ; and then or- 


36 


FOUR OF THEM. 


dering it sent, at three o’clock, no earlier, no later, 
to Miss Gordon, No. 2 Crescent Place. 

At a quarter before three Syl went there herself. 
The pleasure of witnessing Mary Gordon’s surprise 
was the thing she had promised herself, in lieu of 
velvet on her gown. She found the poor room 
neat and clean, and by no means without traces of 
comfort and refinement ; and Mrs. Gordon was a 
sweet and gentle woman, such as Mary’s mother 
must have been to be in keeping with Mary. She 
chatted with them for a few minutes, noticing the 
invalid’s short breath and frequent cough, and 
Mary’s careful tenderness over her. 

“ It ’s too bad Mary can’t be at home all the 
time,” said Syl. 

“Yes; but then to have her to-day is such a 
blessing. If you knew how we had enjoyed our 
day together, and our feast together, I know you 
would feel paid for any inconvenience it cost you.” 

Just then an express wagon rumbled up to the 
door and the bell rang loudly. Mary opened 
it at once, for their room was on the ground 
floor 


HER mother’s daughter. 37 

“A sewing-machine for Miss Gordon,” said a 
somewhat gruff voice. 

“ No, that cannot be. There is some mistake,” 
said Mary’s gentle tones. And then Syl sprang 
forward, in a flutter of excitement, which would 
have been pretty to see had there been anybody 
there to notice it. 

“ I ’m sure it ’s all right. Bring it in, please ; 
and Mary, you will tell them where to put it, in 
the best light.” 

And in five minutes or less it was all in its 
place, and Mary was looking, with eyes full of 
wonder, and something else beside wonder, at 
Syl Graham. 

44 It ’s nothing,” said Syl hurriedly ; 44 it ’s only 
my New Year’s present to you, a little in advance 
of time.” 

She had thought she should enjoy Mary’s sur- 
prise ; but this was something she had not looked 
for, — this utter breaking down, these great wild 
sobs, a-s if the girl’s heart would break. And 
when she could speak at length, she cried with a 
sort of passion, — 


38 


FOUR OF THEM. 


“ O Miss Syl, I do believe you have saved my 
mother’s life! She will get better — she must — 
now that I can stay here all the time and take 
care of her.” 

Syl was glad to get out into the street. She 
felt something in her own throat choking her. 
Just a few steps off she met Dr. Meade, — her own 
doctor, as it chanced, — and it struck her that it 
would be a good thing if he would go in to see 
Mrs. Gordon. So she asked him. 

“ I ’m going there,” he said. “ I try to see her 
once every week.” 

“ And will she live — can she ? ” 

The doctor answered, with half a sigh , — 

kk 1 ’in afraid not. She needs more constant care, 
and more nourishing food and other things. I 
wish I could help her more, but I can only give my 
services, and I see so many such cases.” 

“ But she would take things from you, and not 
be hurt ? ” 

“ T should make her if I had a full purse to go 
to.” 

“ Well, then, here are forty dollars for her ; and 


her mother’s daughter. 39 

you are to get her what she needs, and never let 
her know where it came from — will you ? ” 

“ Yes, I will,” he answered earnestly. And 
then, after a moment, he said, — “ Syl Graham, 
you are your mother s daughter. I can say no bet- 
ter thing of you, — she was a good woman.” 

Syl had a hundred dollars left ; but that 
would n’t compass the pomegranate silk, and Syl 
had concluded now she did not want it. She had 
had a glimpse of something better ; and that hun- 
dred dollars would make many a sad heart glad 
before spring. 

On New Year’s Day, Papa Graham was off all 
day making calls ; and the gas was already lighted 
when he went into his own house, and into his 
own drawing-room. He saw a girl there with 
bands of bright chestnut hair about her graceful 
young head ; with shining eyes, and lips as bright 
as the vivid crimson roses in her braided hair, and 
in the bosom of her black silk gown. He looked 
at her with a fond pride and a fonder love ; and 
then he bent to kiss her, — for the room was 
empty of guests just then. As he lifted his head 


40 


FOUR OF THEM. 


and met Aunt Rachel’s eyes, it happened that he 
said about the same words Dr. Meade had used 
before, — 

“ She is her mother’s daughter ; 1 can say of her 
no better thing.” 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


JT was the old story over again, — the duck had 
hatched a swan, and thought it a very ugly bird. 
Mrs. John Frost was thoroughly discontented with 
her youngest girl. Girls were rather an old story 
when Ruth was born. Delia and Jeannette had al- 
ready preceded her, — Delia by four years, and 
Jeannette by two. 

Ruth should have been a boy. Her mother, in- 
deed, almost resented the intrusion of a third girl. 
They say mother-love is a universal instinct; and 
no doubt it existed somewhere deep down in Mrs. 
John Frost’s heart, even for this undesired girl. 

Papa Frost made Ruth welcome from the first. 
He had never been allowed to have much to do 
with the two older girls. But little Ruth he might 
pet and fondle to his heart’s content. 

It was he who gave her her name, in memory of 
his mother, who had gone long ago to sleep on the 


42 


FOUR OF THEM. 


sunny south side of the village churchyard. When she 

grew old enough to toddle about, it was to his hand 

/ 

that she clung. When her school-days came, it was 
to him, not to her mother, that she told all her little 
pleasures and perplexities. While she had him, she 
scarcely realized that her lot was more lonely than 
that of her two older sisters, who were always play- 
ing together. 

When she grew older still, into a shy little girl 
of twelve, it was to her father that she went with 
her first great secret. The soul of an artist was in 
little Ruth Frost ; and she made pictures of all 
sorts of things with such simple materials as she 
could command. At last she showed them to her 
father ; and he, with the keen artistic sense he had, 
which had never found expression, perceived, under 
their crudeness, the something that made him be- 
lieve the child had genius. 

He kept her secret faithfully, but he bought her 
pencils and colors and cardboard ; and he was as 
excited over every fresh attempt of hers as she 
was herself. 

By this time Delia was sixteen, and very “ capa- 
ble,” as they say in New England ; and Jeannette 


HOW KUTH CAME HOME. 


48 


was fourteen, and she, too, was a girl after her 
mother’s own heart, and “ could turn her hand to 
anything.” There was not much left for Ituth to do, 
except to dream, and to try to shadow forth her 
dreams in her sketches. She never could have kept 
these sketches secret save for her father; but the 
mystery was as dear to him as to her. 

He liked to think there was this shared and sacred 
confidence between him and his youngest and favorite 
girl. 

She grew to be fourteen before her first great 
trouble came to her. Then one morning she saw her 
father in the garden before breakfast, and they made 
plans together for a little walk and a new sketch, as 
gayly as two children. After this they went in to 
breakfast. When the meal was half over, a strange 
look came across John Frost’s face. He put out his 
hands in a vague, uncertain way, and said, “ Father’s 
little daughter!” as if he were unconscious what he 
was saying. 

Those were his very last words. 

Euth sprang to his side first, and then the others. 
He was taken to bed ; physicians were summoned ; 
all that man could do was done, and done in vain, 


44 


FOTJK OF THEM. 


Now and then, when Euth was left alone with him 
for a moment, she would clasp and kiss him and cry 
to him, with all the passion of her loving heart ; but 
no sound penetrated those closed ears. 

He lay there, breathing heavily, for two hours. 
Then the breath grew shorter and fainter, and ceased 
at last ; he had gone out upon the tide, to another 
shore, where they need not the sun by day or the 
moon by night. 

The grief of all the others was more noisy than 
that of Euth. But when he was taken away and 
buried out of* her sight, she felt as if her heart had 
been left behind her in his grave. She went silently 
and dreamily about the house. She could not touch, 
for a long time, her brushes or her pencils. All the 
implements of her art were connected so closely with 
him. 

But at last her longing to work came back to her. 
It seemed to her that in it she must find her only 
consolation. And now her petty vexations began. 
Without her father’s aid she could no longer keep 
her occupation secret ; and it vexed her mother sorely 
to find in a daughter of her own such alien tastes. 

She set her hard tasks, at which Euth labored 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


45 


faithfully, full of a desperate impatience to get through 
them, and go back to the work that was her life. 
But somehow she never gave satisfaction. If she 
made bread, it did not “rise” as Delia’s and Jeannette’s 
did ; if she sewed a seam, it was sure not to be quite 
straight ; if she dusted a room, there would be some 
unlucky speck of dust left somewhere. 

At last, the day she was sixteen, her mother sum- 
moned her for a serious talk. Ruth had been cry- 
ing. For almost two years now her father had been 
asleep under his coverlet of summer grass or winter 
snow, and Ruth could not remember one really 
tender word that had been spoken to her in all that 
time. Was it her own fault ? she wondered. She 
knew that she was not companionable to the rest. 
The little things of every day that interested them 
so much had no interest for her. She was absent- 
minded, forever seeing something in her mind that 
no one else saw. 

“ Mother says my wits are always wool-gathering,” 
she said to herself, “ and I suppose it is trying. Per- 
haps if I think more about what is going on, and how 
I can help along, they will grow fonder of me after a 
while. I can’t expect anybody to care, as he cared, 


46 


FOUR OF THEM. 


for what I want ; but, perhaps, if / care for what 
they want, things will go better.” 

To her, in this softened mood, came Delia, and said 
that her mother wanted her in the sitting-room. The 
moment she appeared there, her eyes, red with weep- 
ing, gave offence to her mother. 

It would be unjust to forget that Mrs. Frost had 
her own grievance. To her it seemed a positive 
trouble to have a daughter whom she could no more 
understand than she could have guessed the Sphinx’s 
riddle, — a silent conundrum, eating her bread, and 
going in and out of her house, but living some other 
life of her own all the time.. She looked at pale little 
Ruth with her red eyes, and said, in a tone of voice 
which was not free from bitterness, — 

“ You are sixteen years old now, and I think it ’s 
time that you should turn over a new leaf. You 
have never done anything useful since you were 
born, and I think you should begin now. Delia 
and Jeannette are both good housekeepers, and Delia 
is going to teach school this winter. You do nothing 
but idle your time away over a parcel of paints and 
brushes, and I ’m going to put a stop to it.” 

“ Are we poor, mother ? ” Kuth asked, with a cour- 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


47 


age that astonished herself as much as it did her 
mother. 

“ No, we are not poor ; but that is no sign why you 
should be lazy.” 

“Have I anything of my own ? ” 

“ Not while I live. The property was more of it 
mine than your father’s, and he willed it all to me 
Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because if I had anything, I should wish to use 
it to go away and study art.” 

“ Study fiddle-sticks ! ” Mrs. Frost cried, angrily. 
“ Go and bring me your paints and brushes, every 
one.” 

Silently Ruth obeyed. She thought they were to 
be locked away from her ; but she put them into her 
mother’s hand, with a submission so unprotesting 
that somehow it angered her mother still more. 

It was a chilly morning early in September, and a 
light, bright fire was burning on the hearth. Mrs. 
Frost turned towards it, with the paints and brushes. 
If Ruth had entreated, even then, no doubt she might 
have saved her treasures ; for her mother was narrow 
and prejudiced, rather than unkind or hard-hearted. 
But a spirit came into Ruth which she did not her- 


48 


FOUR OF THEM. 


self recognize. Her lips grew white and rigid, but 
she did not open them. She looked steadfastly at her 
mother. One by one Mrs. Frost laid those things 
which were her daughter’s treasures upon the fire. 
The flames welcomed them eagerly, and glowed and 
danced around them, and in a moment they were 
gone. 

Then the mother, half-frightened at what she had 
allowed herself to do, and the daughter, a little 
whiter and quieter than usual, stood and looked at 
each other. Ruth was the first to speak. It seemed 
as if in the last quarter of an hour she had suddenly 
grown up. 

“ Mother,” she said, “lam not wanted here. Could 
you not help me to go away to an art-school, and 
prepare to be a teacher, and take care of myself ? ” 

Her quiet manner enraged Mrs. Frost as much as 
her question did. Mrs. Frost was a good manager, a 
good housekeeper; but she had not learned to control 
her own spirit. Anger burned hot within her. 

“You can go at any time you please,” she said. 

1 11 give you fifty dollars to start with ; and no doubt 
you will be able to get a living by your ‘ art,’ I think 
you called it.” 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


49 


“ Thank you ; I will take it and do the best I can 
for myself in the world.” 

Mrs. Frost looked after her in a kind of dumb 
surprise, not unmingled with alarm. She was not 
much troubled, however. As soon as the money was 
spent, she said to herself, Euth would be back, glad 
enough to get home. And she should n’t grudge the 
fifty dollars — not she — to teach Euth a good lesson. 

Euth was glad that she had not been compelled to 
give her sketches to be burned. She could take 
them with her, and she had high hopes from them, — 
the hopes of an untried, inexperienced heart. 

She prepared, with what speed she might, for her 
new life. When she had put all that she wished to 
take away into her trunk, she went downstairs and 
out of doors. Her feet had trodden many a time the 
path she took, for it led to her fathers grave. When 
she got there, the churchyard was silent as the dead 
who slept in it. No soul was in sight, — not even a 
bird twittered. Euth knelt down, and put her arms 
round the white stone on which her father’s name 
was graven. 

“ You loved me ! ” she cried, “ you only, in all the 
world ; and now you are gone. Do you know what I 

4 


50 


FOUll OF THEM. 


say ? Do you know how I cry, and there is no one 
to be sorry for me ? ” 

And it seemed to her that from out the low grave 
she heard a voice echo softly the last words her 
father ever spoke, — 

" Father’s little daughter ! ” 

When she went home again she was very calm. 
It was almost time for the train by which she meant 
to go to New York. She asked if the man might 
take herself and her trunk to the station. Then her 
mother gave her the fifty dollars, and, with a sort 
of eleventh-hour relenting, money enough besides to 
pay her passage to New York. She said good-by to 
Delia and Jeannette with no special emotion ; then, 
suddenly, she turned to her mother. I think those 
two had never been so near each other in all Kuth’s 
life as now, when they were parting. 

“Kiss me, mother,” Kuth cried eagerly. “ My father 
loved us both.” 

And that kiss of parting was the warmest kiss the 
girl had ever known from her mother’s lips. 

“ Of course you’ll go to the Henleys; they are 119 
West 11th Street; don’t forget,” Mrs. Frost called 
after her, as she was getting into the wagon. 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


51 


The Henleys were old neighbors, who had moved, 
a few years before, to New York. Buth doubted 
whether she should go there. She had plans of her 
own, impractical plans, but they looked reasonable to 
her. She would sell her sketches and live on the 
proceeds, and in her own success she had all the faith 
of untried youth. 

She got to New York just at nightfall, and drove 
to the St. Nicholas Hotel. It was a lonesome night. 
She had chosen that hotel because she had been there 
once before with her father ; but the memory of that 
old holiday did not make the present solitude the 
easier to bear. 

Not until Buth was fairly gone did Mrs. Frost 
realize the madness of letting this girl of sixteen go 
out alone into the world. 

Before she went to bed, she wrote to Mrs. Henley, 
commending her daughter to her care. She slept 
little ; and she would have slept yet less, had she 
herself had experience enough of the world to under- 
stand half the dangers Buth was confronting. There 
was, indeed, but one hope for the helpless girl, to 
whom the great city might well have been more 
dangerous than a den of wild beasts. There was the 


52 


FOUR OF THEM. 


word of promise that God would be a father to the 
fatherless. 

The next morning Ruth arose, bright and early. 
As soon as the shops seemed to be open, she walked 
out on Broadway. She had taken with her the best 
of her sketches; these she hoped to sell, and she 
walked on till she came to a well-known picture-store. 
It was too early an hour for customers. When she 
went in, the clerks were busy arranging the exhibi- 
tion-room, and the proprietor of the shop seemed to 
be concluding a bargain with a lady who had brought 
some pictures to sell, — pictures so beautiful that, as 
Ruth saw them spread out, her heart sank within her. 
What would her poor little sketches look like, after 
these? Seeing her air of hesitation, the proprietor 
asked, courteously, how he could serve her. 

“I, too, brought some sketches which I wanted 
to sell ; but I see now that it will be of no use. 
After these, you will not look at mine..” 

“ Let me see them, at least,” said the dealer, pleas- 
antly ; and the lady turned, too, with much interest, 
touched by the admiration of her own work yet 
more evident in Ruth’s face than in her words. 
With her cheeks flushing, and her heart beating fast, 


HOW KUTH CAME HOME. 


53 


timid Kuth spread out her humble sketches. There 
was an utter absence of technical knowledge. She 
had not learned even the grammar of art, but the 
soul of art was there. She was like a real poet, who 
could not spell, — who did not know of the mar- 
riage ceremony between verbs and substantives, and 
yet whose fancy had scaled the heavens. 

The dealer and Mrs. Osborne — for the lady was 
Margaret Osborne, the well-known artist — looked 
at each other in surprise. 

There were low fields, over which the mists of 
morning crept, beneath skies where a red dawn 
began to break. There were desolate trees, whose 
boughs a long-prevailing wind had bent, and bits of 
water, sad in the sad moonlight. There were flowers, 
taken as they grew, with background of bits of 
rock and moss, and ferns that almost trembled as you 
looked at them. 

“ My child, you know nothing, but you feel every- 
thing ! ” Mrs. Osborne cried, impulsively. 

The tears sprang to Ruth’s eyes. Such praise from 
such a source made her feel as if already she 
had been crowned with immortal bay. She looked 
the thanks she dared not trust herself to speak. 


54 


FOUR OF THEM. 


Then she said, timidly, to the dealer, “ Will they 
sell?” 

“ I dare not promise that,” he answered, kindly, 
“but I will keep them and show them to some people 
who may be interested. Some one may possibly 
buy these, now, for the sake of the great promise 
there is in them.” 

“ Thank you. Then shall I call again in a few 
days ? ” 

“If you please.” 

There was nothing more for Ruth but to go 
away. 

In a few days she called again at the picture-store, 
and chanced to meet there the same lady. And -evi- 
dently the lady remembered her, for she came for- 
ward and put out a cordial hand. 

“ I am Margaret Osborne,” she said, “ and I like 
the spirit of your work, and want to be your friend. 
May I?” 

The sudden tears rushed into Ruth’s eyes, — the 
swift red to her pale cheeks. 

“ 0 Mrs. Osborne,” she cried, “ ivill you ? I am 
only Ruth Frost, from Ryefield ; and I have come 
here all alone to try and make my way by my art, 


HOW KUTH CAME HOME. 55 

and it does look so hard. Will you tell me what 
to do ? ” 

“ Indeed I will. Your sketches are sold already, 
Mr. Strauss tells me ; and now you have only to 
go to work and acquire the technical skill which 
will make your execution as good as your ideas. 
Did you mean that you were quite alone in this 
great city, — a child like you ? I will walk with 
you toward your place, and you shall tell me how 
this happens.” 

And so, as they walked, the story was told. All 
that had been harsh in Mrs. Frost got itself softened 
down in the telling; yet, somehow, Mrs. Osborne 
saw just how unwelcomed and uncongenial the girl’s 
life had been in that home, and understood the mood 
of desperation in which Buth had come out into 
the world, — a lamb, as she said to herself, among 
wolves. Margaret Osborne’s sympathies were strong, 
and her impulses were quick and ardent. “ I some- 
times have art pupils,” she said, as Buth paused. 
“ Perhaps you would like to come and study 
with me ? ” 

“ With you ? ” 

“ Yes. I am alone. There is a little room off my 


56 


FOUR OF THEM. 


own which you can have ; and you can work in my 
studio. I know you as well through those pictures 
of yours as if I had been your neighbor all my life. 
I can teach you all you need at present. I do not 
take many pupils, but I am willing to try you. Will 
you come ? ” 

“ Will I ? ” Ruth’s looks said the rest, for some- 
thing seemed to choke her just then. If exiled 
Mother Eve had been invited back into the Garden 
of Eden, she might have felt something as this girl 
did, who seemed to herself to have been invited into 
paradise. 

The next day, Mrs. Frost received a letter from 
Mrs. Henley, saying that she had neither seen nor 
heard anything from the missing Ruth, — a letter 
which Mrs. Frost thought she could not have borne, 
had not the same post brought one from Ruth. This 
last was a little letter, and it only said, — 

“ My dear Mother, — I have been wrong, I 
know, in not trying more to please you; but I do 
think I am in my right place now. I am studying 
with a lady whom you would approve ; and I 
promise you faithfully, if I get into any trouble or 
difficulty, you shall know at once. You do know, 


.1 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 57 

mother, that you can trust my word. If all goes well 
with me, you will not hear from me again until I 
have succeeded ; but be sure that I will never do one 
thing which would grieve my father, if the dead can 
know about the living. I love you and my home 
more than ever, now that I am far away. 

“Your Daughter Euth.” 

This letter somewhat eased the anxiety of Mrs. 
Frost’s heart, in which, at last, the long-silent 
instinct of motherhood had asserted itself even 
towards this her youngest girl. 

She had still half a hope that when the fifty dollars 
were spent, Euth would return ; but, deeper down 
still, was a yet stronger, more unselfish hope, that 
the child would succeed in her own way. 

In becoming an inmate of Mrs. Osborne’s house, it 
seemed to Euth that she had for the first time really 
begun to Eve, since for the first time she was sur- 
rounded by the atmosphere of art. The winter days 
were all too short for her work ; and the long 
evenings not long enough for the reading and con- 
versation and music of which they were full. She 
thought of her mother, whose eyes had been sealed 
from beholding all this glory, with a half-remorseful 


58 


FOUR OF THEM. 


pity, which Mrs. Frost could never have understood, 
and with a tenderness as unfostered and pathetic as 
a flower which grows alone upon a grave. 

In the warmth-giving sunshine of this new, bright 
life her powers expanded, and Mrs. Osborne used to 
say, half seriously, that she was raising up her own 
rival. 

The next spring, Delia Frost was married. Her 
bridal journey took her to Hew York, and among 
other places where it was “ the thing ” to go, she 
went to the Academy exhibition of pictures. There 
was one which struck her greatly, for it was of a 
familiar scene, — their own old homestead, — the 
well-known house, with its sheltering trees ; the 
little stream at the right, with the willows weeping 
over it ; some old-fashioned flowers beside the rustic 
well. 

“ It is home to the life, George,” she said to her 
husband. “ Some artist must have sketched it in 
passing through Byefield.” 

Of course “ George ” agreed with her, and they 
wandered on through the gallery. On their way 
out, they stopped again before the old homestead, and 
Delia declared it made her homesick to look at it 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 


59 


The next week, they were sitting in the parlor at 
home, and, among other things they had seen, Delia 
described this picture. Mrs. Frost sat for a few 
moments in silence; then she said, quietly, — 

“ Delia, did you happen to think that might be 
Ruth’s picture ? ” 

“ Oh no, mother, that would n’t be possible. She 
has only been gone since September. She could n’t 
have got a picture into the Academy, — that child ! ” 

Mrs. Frost said no more ; but the next morning 
she came into the room where her daughters were 
sitting. 

“ I have packed my trunk,” she said, “ and I am 
going to New York this afternoon. Mrs. Henley has 
often asked me to make her a visit, and I have 
concluded to go, now.” 

It was not the family habit to make comments on 
the mother’s movements. She was a strong-willed 
woman, and accustomed to take her own way. But 
after she had gone, Delia said to Jeannette, — 

“ You may depend upon it, mother thinks that 
picture was Ruth’s, and she has gone to find out.” 

Mrs. Frost meantime went on her uneventful 
journey. She passed that night at the Henleys’, and 


60 


FOUR OF THEM. 


the next morning she made her way to the Academy 
of Design. 

She was not long in finding the picture of which 
she was in search. It was signed “ Ray,” and the 
catalogue gave her no further light on the subject; 
but she felt sure, in the depths of her heart, that this 
picture was painted from no hurried sketch by a 
passing artist, but from the faithful memory of one 
who clung lovingly to each simple detail, and omitted 
nothing. 

She had too much shrewdness and perseverance to 
be baffled by an unresponsive catalogue ; and she 
asked the person who sold tickets at the door who it 
was that decided what pictures should be accepted 
for the exhibition. “ The Hanging Committee,” she 
was told. 

“ And is any one of them here now ? ” she in- 
% 

quired. 

A gentleman was pointed out to her, and she at 
once approached him with the straightforwardness 
which was one of her strong characteristics. 

“ I want to buy that picture, ‘ No. 334,’ ” she said. 
“Can you tell me where I can find the artist?” 

“Fortunately, I can. It was painted by Miss 


HOW RUTH CAME HOME. 61 

Ruth Frost. She is a pupil of Mrs. Osborne’s, and 
lives with her at No. 10 West 42d Street.” 

A week after that, Jeannette, who was house- 
keeper in her mother’s absence, received a letter, 
which said, only, — 

“I shall return home to-morrow night, bringing 
two guests with me. I have purchased the picture 
of which Delia spoke. 

“Your affectionate Mother.” 

Two guests ! Jeannette was full of excitement 
and curiosity ; but she did not allow excitement to 
interfere with housekeeping. She made bread and 
cake, she arranged the spare rooms she gathered 
flowers to adorn the house ; and at last, when there 
was nothing more to be done, she waited, and that 
was hardest of all. She had sent a wagon to meet 
the five-o’clock train, and at length it returned well 
laden. First of all, out stepped her mother, resolute 
and firm of foot. 

" Jeannette,” the mother said, as tranquil and self- 
possessed as ever, “ here are Mrs. Osborne and my 
daughter Ruth, who have come to pass the month 
of June with us.” 


62 


Four of them. 


That night, leaving Mrs. Osborne to make friends 
with Jeannette, Ruth stole out to tread once more 
the well-worn path that led to her father’s grave. 
She heard other footfalls behind her as she neared 
the churchyard ; and looking round she saw her 
mother’s face, pale in the moonlight, and strangely 
softened. 

* “ May I come too, Ruth ? ” she asked, and there 
was a humility in her voice that no one had ever 
heard in it before. “ May I come ? I did not under- 
stand you as your father did. May be I did not alto- 
gether understand him, either, — but I loved him, 
Ruth ; and I loved you too, even when I seemed 
the hardest.” 

Ruth did not speak. It seemed to her no words 
would fitly express the great passion of love and 
pity that swelled her heart. She only put out her 
hand, and her mother held it fast ; and so they went 
on together, under the westering moon, to kneel at 
last, they two, beside a grave. 


MAKGAKET’S NECKLACE. 



(EETTY Margaret Ashurst stood before the 


J- counter of Golding & Smith, — the jewellers 
who brought, and took much pride in bringing, 
to quiet Paysonville all the elegant novelties of 
the city trade. Margaret was sixteen, blonde, 
beautiful, and Judge Ashurst’s only daughter, — 
this latter not the least of her claims to distinction, 
for Judge Ashurst was a man whom not alone his 
town, county, State, but the whole country knew. 
His great, gray stone house stood at the head of 
the village, like a city set upon a hill; — prom- 
inent among its humbler neighbors as the judge 
himself was among his townsmen. 

Margaret, in her violet velveteen suit, with the 
violet hat just crowning her golden hair, and the 
dainty violet gloves, so delicate that they did not 


64 


FOUR OF THEM. 


conceal the symmetry of her perfect hands, was 
a pretty sight, as she turned over the trays full 
of glittering ornaments which the beguiling shop- 
man placed before her. In the little silver porte- 
monnaie which swung from her wrist, she had a 
crisp, new, fifty-dollar bank note, • which her 
Uncle John had sent her the week before. 

"To buy yourself a keepsake with, to give 
away, to spend precisely as you want to, so that 
it gives you pleasure,” his letter had said : and 
as to buy a keepsake was his first suggestion, and 
as doing this, she felt, was very sure to give her 
pleasure, she had come out on that errand bent. 

Rings — they were beautiful, but she had so 
many now — Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, and 
the like — spoiled child of fortune as she was, that 
none of them seemed to tempt her. Brooches — 
yes, but she had as pretty ones at home ; brace- 
lets — if she had a dozen, she should always 
wear one pair, somebody’s gift who had been 
dear and now was dead. She turned from all 
the fine show listlessly, beginning to feel the 
spending of her fifty-dollar note rather an anx- 


Margaret’s necklace. 


65 


iety. At precisely this stage of the affair Mr. 
Golding, who had been watching from a little 
distance the march of events, himself came for- 
ward, his clerks making way for him. 

" PerRaps you have not seen this new style of 
necklace, Miss Ashurst? In New York, neck- 
laces and medallions have superseded brooches 
almost entirely. These spiral ones of fine gold 
are remarkably flexible and handsome.” 

Miss Ashurst took up the glittering bauble he 
offered her, and held it for a moment in her hand. 
It was beautiful. If she should win Professor 
Frankenstein’s medallion — 

"How much is it?” she asked. 

" Fifty dollars.” 

Just the sum Uncle John had sent. It seemed 
as if it had been meant for her to have this very 
thing. Pretty Margaret was rather apt to think 
that things which suited her pleasure were "meant.” 
She drew out her bank note. 

"I think I will take it,” she said, handing the 
money to Mr. Golding. 


60 


FOUR OF THEM. 


"But you want a medallion for it, Miss Ashurst. 
Let me show you some.” 

"I can make a locket, which I have, answer foi 
just now,” Margaret responded, smiling. "I 
must wait till Christmas for anything else” — 
and then she added, in a whisper, to herself — 
"unless I win.” 

She carried home her beautiful glittering orna- 
ment, and laid the velvet case containing it in her 
mother’s lap. Mrs. Ashurst opened it, looked at 
the jewel for a moment, and then said, with just 
a touch of regret in her tone : 

"It is very beautiful. So you thought this 
would give you the most pleasure ? ” 

"On the whole, yes, mamma. I had so many 
ornaments of other kinds ; and then if I win the 
medallion this will just suit, you know.” 

" Do you think you shall ? ” 

"It will depend chiefly on the examination. I 
shall not fail, either in my lessons or conduct, — 
neither will Rachel Gorham. You know it’s 
wholly between us two, now. All the rest have 


Margaret’s necklace. 67 

fallen oil*, and are miles behind. She and I are 
neck and neck.” 

Mrs. Ashurst was silent for a time. She was 
a sweet, thoughtful-looking lady, with a pure, 
tender, motherly face. If Margaret Ashurst 
should ever become a noble woman she would 
owe it to this other noble woman, her mother, — 
this woman who had borne the trial of prosperity, 
ten times more searching to the soul than that of 
adversity, and had come out from it unscathed. 

"You believe that I love you, my Margaret?” 
she asked, at length. 

"Believe, mamma! I should think I knew 
that, if I know my own existence.” 

" Then you will not think it want of love if I 
tell you that I had rather Rachel Gorham won 
this medallion than you?” 

Margaret’s bright, fair face clouded. 

"Rather! O mamma, I did think you were 
interested in my success.” 

" And can you think for one moment that I am 
not, my darling? I want you to do your very 
best. I would like you and Rachel to come out 


68 


FOUR OF THEM. 


so nearly alike that there should be almost a 
doubt to which to award the prize. Still I should 
like there to be some little point of superiority by 
means of which Rachel should win it.” 

The shadow on Margaret’s face grew tender. 

"Because she has so little, and I so much?” 
she asked, with slow, sweet seriousness. "That 
is so like you, mamma ! ” 

"Yes, for that, but not for that alone. Rachel 
is to teach for her livelihood. She wants to get 
a situation next year, and it would help her incal- 
culably if she took the first prize in such a school 
as Professor Frankenstein’s. If I know him at 
all, I know that for precisely these reasons he 
would rather give her the prize than you ; so at 
least she is sure of justice.” 

"Yes, I think the professor would rather she 
should have it. . But he is so odd. It’s curious 
enough he should give that lovely cameo medal- 
lion for a prize at all, — one of the relics of his 
foreign travels.” 

"Not curious, because he is a thoroughly un- 
selfish man ; and when he found the Paysonville 


Margaret’s necklace. 


69 


school in such a listless, dead-and-alive state that 
it was necessary to make them work for some- 
thing they could see with their eyes and touch 
with their fingers, he chose it should be some- 
thing beautiful in itself, something which would 
cultivate their tastes while they were striving for 
it. I want you should work for it, Maggie, but 
I hope Eachel Gorham will win it.” 

"And I hope you’ll see it hanging from my 
new chain,” Margaret answered, laughingly ; for 
the understanding between these two, mother and 
daughter, was perfect, — they always told each 
other the unvarnished truth. 

Three weeks went on, and it was the end of 
May. Three weeks more, and examination-day 
would have come. Margaret’s necklace had lain 
all this time securely in her upper drawer. Its 
first appearance must be in honor of the medal- 
lion ; if she won the medallion, if — 

Rachel Gorham’s mother was a widow, and the 
best dressmaker in Paysonville. Already she had 
sent home Miss Ashurst’s simple, yet beautiful, 
costume for the examination, — a soft, full, fleecy 


TO 


FOUE, OF THEM. 


muslin dress, daintily made, with a wide blue sasb 
and a blue knot to fasten the delicate lace at the 
throat. Margaret had looked at it with appro- 
bation before she went to school that morning. 
At recess she had been sitting at her desk cor- 
recting an exercise, and she could not help hear- 
ing a conversation between Rachel Gorham and 
her intimate friend. 

" Shall you have a new dress for examination, 
Rachel ? ” was the first qtiestion which caught her 
ear. Then she heard a little unconscious sigh, 
and then Rachel’s answer : 

"No. If I teach next year, it will be all 
mother can possibly afford to fit me up suitably 
to go away from home ; and I have strong hopes 
of getting a situation, for Professor Frankenstein 
has promised to interest himself for me. We are 
all to wear white, you know, and I must make 
the cambric I wore last year answer. Mother 
will let some tucks down, and do it up.” 

"That skimped, old-fashioned thing, with not 
even an overskirt?” her companion exclaimed. 


Margaret’s necklace. 


71 


discontentedly. "Why, Rachie, I wanted to be 
proud of you.” 

"Well, it must be of me, then, and not of my 
gown,” Rachel answered bravely ; and Margaret, 
having finished her exercise, went away. 

-All the way home, this conversation which she 
had heard haunted her. She had a generous nature, 
as her mother’s child could hardly have failed to 
have. She really wished that Rachel, who would 
certainly have a very important part to play in 
the examination, could be well and suitably 
dressed. If Rachel only had an Uncle John, 
who would send her fifty dollars " to spend pre- 
cisely as she wanted to, so that it gave her pleas- 
ure ” ! Then came a question. Had she spent 
her fifty dollars so that it really gave her the most 
pleasure ? And out of the question grew a pur- 
pose. 

It was a half -holiday, and directly after dinner 
Margaret went out. She did not say where she 
was going ; but Mrs. Ashurst was not much in 
the habit of asking questions of this girl, who 
had never kept a secret from her in her life. 


72 


FOUR OF THEM. 


Holding a little parcel in her hands, she went 
straight to the store of Golding & Smith, and 
asked to see Mr. Golding in his counting-room 
for a moment. 

"I wish very much to dispose of this,” she 
said, handing to him the case which contained 
her gold necklace. 

"Don’t you like it?” he asked, in surprise. 
"We will exchange it for anything we have in 
the store, with pleasure.” 

"An exchange would not serve me, sir. There 
is something else which I wish to do with this 
money. I have never worn the necklace, but, 
of course, my having it at home may have lost 
you the opportunity of selling it. If you would 
take it back, and keep enough of the price to 
make yourself good, it would be a real favor.” 

Mr. Golding considered for a moment. Trade 
was trade, and he liked to make good bargains, 
but it would not be a bad plan to oblige Judge 
Ashurst’s daughter. He went to the desk, and 
counted out five ten-do liar bills. 

"If you have had our necklace to keep in your 


Margaret’s necklace. 


73 


drawer, we have had your money to keep in our 
till,” he said, good-humoredly. "We will call 
that quits, and here is the price you paid me, in 
full.” 

Miss Ashurst thanked him warmly. An hour 
afterwards she was at home, sitting beside her 
mother, with a bundle of goodly size in her lap. 
Before she opened it, she repeated the conver- 
sation she had heard at school. 

"I did think it was too bad, mamma, that she 
should wear her old skimped cambric. It seemed 
to me she could hardly have her wits about her if 
she had to appear shabby and ill-dressed among 
the rest. If I should come out ahead, and I 
hope I shall, you know, I wanted it should be by 
pure force of merit, and not because my rival 
was too embarrassed to do herself justice. I did 
so wish she had an Uncle John !” 

"And you thought the next best thing would be 
for you to have one?” Mrs. Ashurst said, smiling. 

"How did you know, mamma? But then, you 
are always a witch. Yes, I did think so ; and 


74 


FOUR OF THEM. 


Mr. Golding took my necklace back, and — look 
here, mamma ! ” 

She unfolded her bundle. There were yards 
of fleecy muslin — enough for a dress like her 
own — other muslin enough for an underskirt, 
soft lace for neck and wrists, and a sash of clear, 
handsome green. 

"There, mamma, I spent thirty-live dollars, and 
I think I did pretty well with it. Now I want to 
send Rachel the other fifteen. She will need 
boots, and gloves, and all the little things. See 
what I’ve written to go with it. I want you to 
copy it in your very biggest hand, darling mamma, 
for Rachel knows mine ; and I think the only way 
to make her take it would be for her not to be 
able to guess where it came from.” 

Mrs. Ashurst took the slip of paper, and read 
on it these words : 

"The accompanying muslin, etc., is for the ex- 
amination toilette of Miss Rachel Gorham, from 
one who admires her scholarship, and wishes her 
success. The enclosed fifteen dollars are for the 


Margaret’s necklace. 


75 

additional trifles which the writer did not know 
enough of feminine necessities to select.” 

"That doesn’t sound like me, does it, mamma?” 

"I think it sounds much more like Uncle John,” 
mamma answered, smiling archly. 

" He wouldn’t be vexed at my using his money 
like this, would he?” 

" 1 think we may safely conclude that he would 
not, when he said, distinctly, to spend, or to give 
away, as would afford you most pleasure.” 

" How shall we get the things to Rachel * un- 
knownst,’ as Bridget says ? ” 

"Bridget herself shall manage that. I think 
she can easily contrive to secrete them, after 
dark, somewhere about the premises.” 

Examination-day came, — warm, and clear, and 
bright; and, from morning till night, golden - 
haired Margaret Ashurst, in white and blue, and 
brown-haired Rachel Gorham, in white and green, 
were "neck and neck,” as Margaret had said. 
Professor Frankenstein had delegated the task 
of awarding the prize to a committee ; and, when 


76 


FOUR OF THEM. 


it was late afternoon, after a whispered consul- 
tation, their chairman rose. 

"Two young ladies, Miss Ashurst and Miss 
Gorham, have so conspicuously borne away the 
honors of the examination, that it remains to us 
only to decide between the rival claims of these 
two. Scarcely anywhere can we discern a shade 
of difference in the merit of their respective per- 
formances ; but, in the sole branch of math- 
ematics, it seems to us that Miss Gorham has 
somewhat the clearest comprehension, and the 
most ready command of her own resources. If 
it meets the approbation of Professor Franken- 
stein, the committee would respectfully suggest 
that the prize be awarded to Miss Gorham.” 

Professor Frankenstein stepped forward, and 
drew from its case the coveted medallion, a lovely 
cameo head, set in Roman gold. 

"I think you have won fairly, my pupil,” he 
said, as he laid the jewel in Rachel Gorham’s 
hand. And then he turned to Margaret Ashurst : 

"Nor has your defeat been less glorious than a 
victory” — and he bent his lofty head toward her — 


Margaret’s necklace. 77 

"in token whereof, let me give you, also, this 
sign of my approbation ; ” and he laid in her 
hand another relic of his foreign wanderings — 
a seal — with the most perfect head of Pallas cut 
in intaglio. 

Margaret scarcely heard a word of the few con- 
cluding exercises, for her joy over her new pos 
session. When all was through with, she went 
up to Rachel Gorham : 

" I think we have both done our best,” she said, 
frankly, "and you have won. I thought that I 
could not be honestly glad unless I succeeded 
myself, but I am.” 

"It will be so much to me,” Rachel said, in a 
low tone. "You can hardly tell, — you who have 
no need to struggle ; but they want a teacher 
for Danbury Academy next year, and Professor 
Frankenstein recommended me. Some of the 
trustees have been here to-day, watching the 
whole, and ready to engage me if I passed the 
examination to their satisfaction. One of them 
is Mary Grey’s uncle, and she told me this noon. 
My heart has been in my mouth ever since.” 


78 


FOUR OF THEM. 


"Have you missed your necklace to-day?” Mrs. 
Asliurst asked of happy Margaret, walking home 
beside her. 

"Why, no, mamma, especially since I have not 
needed it, and the prize I won belongs upon my 
watch-chain instead,” Margaret answered, with 
happy archness. 

"I think your true prize, my darling, is in the 
gain that enriches your own soul. I know, at 
least, that you are my best prize, and I am sat- 
isfied with it.” 







OCT 7 












1899 














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